17. Hector

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

HECTOR

I t had never been so clear to me that I belonged nowhere. Of course, I'd never been so far from home, but it wasn't that. It wasn't even that I had no home, such as I knew it, to return to.

The issue was that I was only half a brother to Paris and Helena, half a son to my father and half an administrator to him, the only non-Nemedan in Crane lands. Perhaps I was being dramatic, but having been denied the acceptance that might've anchored me to my new place and new role, I was sulking.

Which was, of course, entirely unacceptable, so I threw all my energy into this new project. Certainly, there were spears and arrow tips to make in the meanwhile, but Abram was surprisingly patient when I took to sketching in moments between work.

If he noticed, he'd sit across the worktable from me and we'd talk through the mechanism. I thought, if we allowed the bolts to drop into place, as long as they were well balanced and didn't get caught on each other, a single soldier could shoot off half a dozen rounds before having to reload.

It was a project I enjoyed putting my mind to, because it was fiddly and meticulous and took the whole of me. I had no time at all to think about gleaming silvery eyes or long silken hair. I couldn't spare a thought to the way he looked up at me, the way his hands felt on my hips, the scar that dragged my eye from his shoulder down his chest and?—

Fuck .

Staring into the forge, I clenched my teeth. I'd told him no, and I meant it. I didn't want his pity and I?—

What? I couldn't give myself over by half? That was decidedly untrue. In every affair I'd ever had, I'd kept my partner at arm's length. I had too many responsibilities to commit to any one person.

So what bothered me now? Was it that I couldn't return what Killian gave me, or something deeper?

No, no, it was simply that I couldn't prove myself and I couldn't stand to accept pleasure when I couldn't give it, hadn't earned it. That was all.

And damn it, I wouldn't be pampered.

I pulled the iron from the forge and carried to the anvil. The strike of hammer on metal took over, the steady beat giving shape to my thoughts.

I lost myself to it, until?—

"Crane." There was a note of amusement in Abram's voice when my head popped up, but he wasn't grinning at me.

He was grinning at Killian, whose serious scowl said that he had no patience for it.

The instant I looked his way, he met my gaze, and the intensity in his eyes stole my breath. I was stuck like a rabbit before a fox as he walked toward me.

How did a man walk like that, so languid and graceful and predatory all at once? My tongue felt clumsy and my hands went still around my tools until it was too late. He was close, and there was nothing I could do for the sweat and grime of work on my face, the hair falling from the tie at the nape of my neck. In a futile attempt, I wiped my hands on my apron.

"Crane?" I echoed. If Abram was erring toward formality, I meant to follow his example.

Killian's gaze hadn't softened in the slightest, and I hated how it made me stand straighter in front of him. "Abram told me about your crossbow. How's it going?"

"Oh—" I hadn't expected him to be interested in that, at least until it was done. Gods, I hadn't expected him to know what I was working on at all.

Startled, I blinked at him for a moment. But work? I could talk through that.

I shook myself out of it and made my way to the worktable I'd commandeered. Killian followed me, and as I spread the diagrams out on the table, he leaned over.

"We're waiting for more wood for the shafts. Getting the bolts to fly reliably, despite a shorter length—we've had to adjust material, and while we have plenty of fletching—" I smirked. There were some benefits to living among birds.

"We'd like the shots to hit their target," Killian agreed.

"Indeed." I picked up a crossbow—a prototype I'd been working on. It had a wooden container on top, but it was empty. I hadn't wanted to risk leaving it alone when loaded. People needed training before handling new weapons, and gods knew I was next to useless with a spear.

I loaded three bolts one by one. Though I was hesitant to fire it in the forge, Abram jerked his head at a sack of sand we sometimes used to straighten warped blades when no vise was handy.

One by one, I shot, using the lever instead of the strength of my own arm to pull the string. As it drew back, a bolt fell from the magazine, then flew when the string was released.

Three pulls of the lever, and three bolts pierced the sandbag, but it was only a few steps away.

"We can't count on these across a battlefield, but I'll get there."

Killian walked over to the sandbag and crouched down to pull the bolts out. He scowled at the sharp tips. "Could you design one larger?"

I frowned. "Larger?"

"To mount on the wall. Something that can be fired from a distance and deter the southerners' approach. Would it be possible?"

I sucked in my cheeks and looked down at the diagram. There was no reason we couldn't.

"If we had the supplies. Reliable metal. Sturdy wood with few imperfections. We'd be working in much larger pieces, but—yes, theoretically, it's doable."

"Good. Do it. I want it to shoot bolts four hundred meters out from the wall, be reliable enough to use quickly. I want the southerners terrified to even get near our boarder."

I nodded, but my gaze was still stuck on the diagram. Whoever was using the weapon would need to be able to reach the lever to reload, so I'd need to be mindful about its position. Perhaps there was a way to mount it that lifted the user up, rather than required a smaller scale...

"Hector."

"Hm?"

I'd have to inspect the walls again to see if it was doable. A larger weapon wasn't always a more effective one, but if the purpose was to deter as much as decimate, making it visible from the far side of the wall could only help.

"Let us know what you need to see it done, and I'll write the Owl."

"Sure," I muttered, reaching for the graphite and pulling out a new piece of parchment. "I will."

If the bolts could separate and spread, or we could shoot something larger—one shot for multiple enemies—maybe something that fractured?

By the time Abram drifted over to Killian, I'd already lost the conversation in a haze of conversions and sketching.